


cat-and-mouse

by pro_se



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Dom/sub, Drinking, F/M, Fantasizing, Feelings, Oral Sex, Sex, it's like looking at a reflection, oh my god i don't like tagging, tagging is a good system! it works!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 16:16:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16162427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pro_se/pseuds/pro_se
Summary: After your rather, er, mischievous plan, which left the Grandmaster at his wit’s end, his mind flecked with lust and compliance, you remain wary of his surefire tactic to exact revenge.





	cat-and-mouse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rayuel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayuel/gifts).



> :3
> 
> a/n: trying to work on longer explicit scenes! is it working? (debatable) am i blushing? (yeah) /this also serves as companion piece to [Public Gardens, cont.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15880107/chapters/37556189) or as a standalone

After your rather, er, _mischievous_ plan, which left the Grandmaster at his wit’s end, his mind flecked with lust and compliance, you remain wary of his surefire tactic to exact revenge.

Fortunately, a familiar sloop-o-war means to sail down the coast for a week, then return to the portside city. You think that Haytham would not allow you to travel out of sight (and he’d much rather lock you up in his bedroom), but he seems strangely agreeable at your tentative request. “Training with Shay will help improve your skills,” he concedes.

You kiss his cheek. “Thank you, Haytham.”

If you were a young, bright-eyed Templar, you might believe his temper would simmer and calm after a week. But no, you can recognize the promising threat at the end of every succinct phrase, every lingering touch that he settles like a live ember on your skin until you board _The Morrigan_.

You greet Shay Cormac’s crisp, weathered personality, although those dark eyes fix past to the dock bystanders. He lets out a low whistle. “Did someone forget to lace their shoes or polish a sword? Haytham seems bothered.” Shay knows him as well as you do. Perhaps even better, as often as they work together on the active field.

“He’s probably had a lousy morning,” you say, shrugging off the twitching idea that you’ve set Haytham Kenway on a warmongering path to punish you, restrained and writhing for more as he siphons pleasure from your body-- in the same way _you_ did.

The thoughts which flood your mind at night are sordid and dirty and suddenly, you’re stifling moans with ocean waves and the occasional crash of distant thunder.

His lips are gentle and kind, and his silver tongue slipping past your lips to seek your silence. His large, calloused hands slide along all the curves of your figure as if you were made of clay, not bone and flesh; his consideration gives to appreciation, you know this, because Haytham has often sunk his teeth in soft places: thighs, waists, tummy, breasts, never failing to elicit something like a whimper as you submit, _submit_ \--

Even though you glimpsed Haytham’s vulnerable side when he’s on his knees, looking up at you--

\--tonight, in your mind, the Grandmaster _fucks_ you ruthlessly.

You clamp a hand over your mouth, imaging the pressure belongs to him as he holds you down easily. The fingers on his other hand tease your clit, rubbing firm, solid circles around the sensitive nub. A wicked smile splits across his angular features and his dark gray eyes narrow.

 _Don’t wake Master Cormac,_ he taunts, _or else you’ll have to explain yourself._

Poor Shay is none the wiser about your sought-after gratification when you break fast the next morning. But you’re especially distracted as you spar together on the slippery deck, missing crucial opportunities as you think back to Haytham’s smirk, his hands, his cock--

Shay smacks your wrist with the flat of a wooden sword and you yelp in pain. “Are you daydreaming? Should I wait below until you’ve collected your thoughts?” he barks. His voice whips you back into the present, and you allow yourself a short, terse pause before diving forwards with a lunge. The Irishman steps back quickly and lets your sword bite into the scarred planks.

Without missing a beat, he swings a powerful arc and you double over as the blade whistles overhead. Shay pivots on his heel, raising his blade just in time to meet yours as you wrench free, up and towards him. The swords clash with a heavy, dull _crack!_

Shay lowers his weapon first. “Good. Now you’re paying attention, lass.”

“I’m sorry. I was distracted, and I should’ve focused on training.”

He wipes a rag over his sweaty forehead, then tosses it to you. “Troubled? Something I could help with?”

You hop up on a crate and rest the sword against your thighs. Thinking about Haytham is a wonderful mixture of dread, anticipation, and passion. The problem is that you’re not sure if you want to give up a display of dominance already, yet he’s determined to strip you powerless (and bare).

“You ever played cat-and-mouse with someone? Chasing after them one day because you’re the cat, and the next day you’re running because you’re the mouse. I’m stuck in that game. And it’s my turn to be the mouse.”

Shay folds his arms and leans next to you, his eyebrows high and arched. He does not seem the sort to leap to assumptions. “I can understand. The Order goes after artifacts and precursor sites all the time, and sometimes we don’t get to keep them for very long.”

He turns his gaze to the wide, open ocean. Behind is the faint horizon of the colonial states, marked by the ridged silhouettes of townhouses and churches, but Shay thinks the teal-green sea is much prettier.

“And it’s a game?” he asks.

“In a sense.”

“Who says you have to play by the rules?” At your stunned silence, Shay taps the sword against your hip playfully, and strides back to the center of the deck. With a confident, cheeky grin, he adds, “Besides, it’s more fun to cheat. Let’s get back to training. Haytham will fuss if you go back without learning _anything_.”

Shay is charming, intelligent, and keeps amiable company during the late nights along the starry Atlantic coast. His business in the southern colonies is dealt with, swiftly and hommage to his killing origins, and then it is back to the north.

As one of the primary combat mentors back at the main compound, he helps hone your existing skills. He also teaches you how to sharpshoot along the twenty-meter range of the beloved _Morrigan_ , then sky-high to small targets painted near the crow’s nest. Most of all, his advice regarding the cat-and-mouse scenario was, in a word, _invaluable_.

Back in Boston, the two of you descend from the vessel and scan the crowd patiently for sights of the Templar escort. You’re the first to spy familiar faces-- and then there is Haytham Kenway, unexpectedly here to welcome you back.

Your eyes meet, and he smiles a little. Christ, you really loved that clever man.

You turn back to Shay and take his hand, squeezing tightly. “Thank you for allowing me to accompany you. It was a refreshing break from the city.”

His eyes sparkle. “If you’ve in need of another vacation, just let me know. I’m just around the corner.” Shay lifts your hand and kisses it.

“What a gentleman.”

“Call it an apology for all those bruises I’ve left in our spars.”  Shay releases your hand and nods respectfully as the Grandmaster approaches, his coat and hat as neat as you remembered. “Sir. Brought ‘er back, safe and sound. Maybe a little tired of biscuits and salted pork.”

It nears dusk when you return to the compound, then excuse yourself to to unpack and wash the seasalt from your skin and hair. You examine the dark purple bruises forming around your ribs and forearms, where you’d suffered the brunt of Shay’s devilishly quick swordsmanship. When you emerge from the bath, Haytham steps into your room and closes the door behind him.

“How was your voyage, seafarer?” he asks, wrapping his arms around your waist.

Haytham kisses you softly, his hands instinctively cupping your face as you sink into his arms. You sigh and set your damp head against his shoulder. Already, you feel relaxed with his earthy, homely scent and the cool brush of his skin on yours. “It was welcome. Shay kept me in good spirits. He’s a good man.”

“And he was successful in his errands.” Haytham brushes a lock of hair behind your ear. “Did I spy a kiss between the two of you? Were you so starved for affection in a week’s passing?”

“His was a chaste kiss on the hand.”

“All the same.”

“Jealousy does not become you.”

He smiles. “I did not say I was jealous.”

“Ah, leave him be, Grandmaster. Shay can hardly find fair company while he’s on the open seas and running tasks for the Order all the time.”

Haytham hums thoughtfully. “For the Order,” he echoes, then runs a thumb along your jaw in a manner that is impossible to read other than sensuous. “For _me_. As do you, a Templar and a damn good one.”

You will join him in his room when the clock strikes later. He must tend to some matters, however he is _eager_ to continue this indelicate, pendulum-like game. Haytham believes he holds the winning hand.

* * *

Haytham hovers over his writing desk, back arched so you can see his spine ridges are visibly under his thin white shirt. There are a couple of glasses and a bottle of whiskey in a lacquer tray; he’s already halfway through a glass. Sleeves rolled up to the elbows, hair brushed and gathered in a pristine ponytail, he looks like the perfect painting subject. You waver at the threshold, unwilling to disturb his image.

Then the dark-haired man looks up and smirks, and then the door is shut and you’re halfway across the room, already imagining his alcoholic lips. Haytham allows a brief, probing kiss, then says, “I’ve only a few more papers to sign. Make yourself comfortable.”

You pick up his glass of whiskey and take a sip.

“That’s mine--”

You smile and wander towards to the four-poster bed, brushing a hand along the crimson red curtains. With his slate eyes flicking up now and then, you finish the drink and remove your stockings and shoes.

Finally, he replaces the quill and inkwell in the drawer and pours another glass. Haytham watches your silent, barefoot approach. You press close to his chest and lean in for a kiss, but he swiftly interrupts the space with his glass of amber liquor, the corner of his lips turned upwards.

“Let me finish my drink, and you may entertain yourself in the meantime,” Haytham says, his voice low and coarse, as his other hand drops to his trousers and deftly unlaces it for you. Breath leaves your lungs but you’re instantly on your knees, tugging his trousers down and wrapping a hand around his jutting cock. He sips his drink again as he rests his weight against the writing desk.

“Take your time.”

“Hmm. I certainly will.”

“And don’t spill a drop, Haytham,” you add, then run your tongue along the thick shaft, its unforgettable warmth on your palm and lips. You do this a few more times, glancing upwards, and note the taut muscles in his neck. When you wrap your mouth around his member, there’s a sound not unlike a broken moan from the Grandmaster.

His hand reaches down and winds in your hair.

You release him and lick your lips, then tell him, “Hands off.” His eyes widen, then narrow. Haytham’s not an imbecile; he knows that you mean to deviate from your role tonight. But out of curiosity or otherwise, he follows your orders-- and you sweep your tongue across the swollen head, returning to the task with renewed satisfaction.

You can taste the salty precum already. “You missed me that much?” you say breathlessly, jerking your hands along the slick length.

Haytham whiteknuckles the edge of the desk and still, he manages to retort: “I missed that mouth.” The Templar puts the glass to his lips. As he downs the alcohol, you guide him back in your mouth and this time, take his entire length, lips around the base of his cock. Haytham chokes and wipes away dribbling whiskey, complimenting _your warm, wet mouth_ , and that _insufferable audacity_.

You crave more than simple praise. “Haytham,” you demand, gazing up at him with wide eyes, “ _Beg_ _me_.”

“ _Fuck_ \--” he stutters, finally unraveling, finally yielding to your control, because it was easier than fighting you, especially when he thinks often to when he submitted to _you_ , only to you-- “Please. _Please_ . Oh God, you feel-- _incredible_ , please--”

His hips buck helplessly in your hands, and you kiss the leaking slit. Haytham groans and his voice _cracks_ \--

“--let me _fuck_ you, Christ--”

You take his swollen cock to the hilt, and he’s achingly harder and thicker than you remember. You hum around his shaft, moaning and bobbing your head and Haytham looks like he’s at his breaking point, fingers flexing against the desk, hand holding the whiskey trembling and shaking. In one motion he finishes the drink, slams down the glass, and then drags you to your feet for a deep, desperate kiss.

For a few moments, the two of you are lost in the kiss, salty and heady without a clear sense of who starts and who ends.

Then Haytham rips away and harshly growls, “Get on the bed.” He kicks away his trousers and unbuttons his shirt, then slides your blouse over your head. Your pants and underclothes join the floor, and then the Grandmaster digs into your hips and forces you on your stomach. Silk bedsheets under your cheek; his relentless weight straddle your legs. A hand skim over the bruises on your ribs, memorizing the stains of purple and black on your naked skin.

Haytham spreads your folds, his stomach twisting at the sight of the slick despite not touching yourself, and suddenly he sinks into you, savoring every moment and inch and he eventually bottoms out, his chest pressed flush against your back. Your breathing is uneven, interrupted by needy whines and soft swearing.

He withdraws almost fully, then his hips snap forward again, stuffing you with his thick cock-- and he does this again and again at a punishing pace. Thanks to your earlier efforts, his stamina will not last for long. “ _Haytham_ ,” you sob, fisting the bedsheets, and he sucks a bruise on the crook of your neck, sucking a bruise that will show in the morning light, but you could care less at the moment. The Grandmaster of the Templar Order _begged_ you to suck his dick, and now he’s _fucking_ you into the mattress--

“Wretched woman,” he pants in your ear, “Of course, I missed you. There’s no one else I want but _you_.”

He thrusts again and half-collapses as he comes, cock buried deep in your cunt. His fingers seek out your clit and mercilessly chase after your high, which crashes into you out of nowhere and leaves your ears ringing and head spinning. His name hazily lingers on your lips, until Haytham slots his mouth on yours and kisses you, soft and tender.

* * *

Early, early next morning, you wrap your hands around a cup of coffee and blearily blink at the familiar Irishman who arrives in full gear, whistling a ditty he’d picked up elsewhere. He sits from across you with his own coffee and smiles--

\--then Shay frowns and leans forward. He flicks your loose collar aside and you know that he’s staring at the purple hickey from last night’s endeavor. Surprise, then realization crosses his face. He bursts out laughing, not caring if he’d wake the whole compound.

“Oh Christ,” he wheezes, wiping at his eyes. “Cat-and-mouse, huh? And which were you?”

“Bit of both.”


End file.
